


When the Angels Came Down

by waldorph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-02
Updated: 2008-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Ryazanov met Dean Winchester years before he agreed to be Castiel's host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gone the Sun

_It sounds like razors in my ears  
That bell's been ringing now for years  
Someday I'll give it all away  
That's how you sing Amazing Grace_

* * *

Jerry, Benjamin's college roommate, had actually introduced him to Susan Scott in 1997, his junior year of college. Benjamin had swallowed, eyes tracking Jerry across their dorm as Jerry stripped down to change after practice.

"You'll love her, Numbers," Jerry had promised, and Benjamin had. Susan had been vibrant and had laughed and loved to paint, wanted children, went to church.

Susan knows that he struggles with his faith. It comes easily to her, her reedy voice becoming beautiful in the crush of a hymn….but Benjamin struggles.

Not with- he believes. He does. He just- sometimes, like with Jerry in college, he'd find himself drowning in the want. And he'd know, know it was a test, know that this was the devil, but he couldn't help it.

And he's a good man. He gives to charities, supports the RNC and his local politicians and goes to church. He honestly tries to abide by the 10 commandments and be a _good_ man. He just…he just slips, a little. Sometimes. He wants impure things.

But Susan had kissed him softly, and they'd been married two years later. In 2003, two years after he'd passed the bar and been hired to Jenkins &amp; Oaks Law Firm, they'd had their first baby, Georgia Mary. In 2005 Margaret Ruth had followed, and Benjamin had been making enough that Susan could stay home, paint and run the Sunday School, be on the Church Council, and even join the PTA. She'd flourished in the involvement, their house always had little girls running around and Susan's friends popping in, and Benjamin had thought, _This is what I've been waiting for. It'll all be all right_.

And then everything had changed.

* * *

It was August 12, 2006. If you'd asked, Benjamin might have been able to tell you the exact time.

They'd walked into the firm's lobby perfectly in sync, black shoes snapping against the shiny floor. Benjamin had been walking by, fingering through some numbers and briefs he'd prepared for Jack's case. He'd brushed against one of them, and mumbled,

"Excuse me!"

The other man touched his arm. "Don't worry about it," he said. Benjamin met his eyes briefly, and his heart stuttered.

Benjamin had walked quickly to Jack's office. He'd been with the firm for four years, hired right after he passed the bar. He'd made a name for himself in IRS cases, obscure law, ability to find obscure loopholes…Benjamin had made a name for himself in obscurity. He still has it. If someone is stuck, they come to Benjamin because they know that he'll put in the long hours for little credit. Jack Brentwood was, and is, the firm's best trial lawyer. He likes to have Benjamin help him, and it's like being the smart kid helping the jock: it's a relationship Benjamin has always had. Even his college roommate, Jerry, was the jock to Benjamin's smart kid.

Jack grins at him. "Hey, thanks," he says with his sunny Texan drawl. "Look at this. It's the Brownwell insurance claim. Got two feds in here looking into it."

"I didn't think- " Benjamin starts, and then shrugs, lets the thought die away. Jack nods.

"Yeah, I don't know what they want. I mean, seems straightforward. Old lady dies, second husband and daughter from first marriage fight over the will." He shrugged broad shoulders. "Still. Feds." His grin had been sharp and anticipatory, and Benjamin had shook his head and left the briefs on his desk.

And it all would have been fine, except fifteen minutes later Jack had called his office and said, "You might as well catch the show, Benjamin." HIs voice was warm and inviting and Benjamin had said, "Sure" because he was weak, and couldn't say no.

"Agent Cash," the shorter one, the one whom Benjamin had knocked into earlier, introduced himself. "This is Agent Spears." Agent Spears made a nodding sort of greeting, glaring at Agent Cash briefly.

They had all the paperwork, but they were nothing like what Benjamin had expected from the FBI. First of all, Agent Cash had smiled and flirted with Bridget, the receptionist (Benjamin had heard her laughing about it to Carmen, a paralegal), and the taller one, Agent Spears, had (allegedly) looked like he wanted to kill him a little.

Benjamin had thought at first that they were brothers, and then maybe that they were one of those teams that were so close nobody could tell where one started and the other ended.

Then he thought maybe they were homosexuals.

"Mr. Brentwood?" Agent Cash prompted, lips pulled into a pursing frown, and Benjamin had watched as his left leg had twitched and his right index finger had slid against those lips- back and forth- before he cleared his throat, sat up, fixed the lapels of his suit jacket. Jack grinned, and it was painfully obvious to Benjamin that he isn't needed here. He didn't need to be in the room. For all the attention he was paid, he might as well not have been.

"As far as I can tell there's nothing suspicious. The daughter just doesn't like the stepfather." Jack had paused and tipped his head back, grinning at Agent Cash and the grin was a promise and Benjamin really, really, really needed to get out of the room. _Please, God. Please help me,_ he begged as Agent Cash smiled slightly, the green in his eyes catching the light.

"But she's your client so you're going to milk this one."

Jack laughed. "What can I say? It's a tough job, but someone has to do it."

"And I'm sure you're _just_ the man for the job."

Benjamin had mumbled an excuse he's fairly sure none of them heard (or cared about) and had slipped out. He'd gone to the men's room, shut himself into a stall, and willed his erection away.

Full lips curving into a wicked smile floated in front of his eyes, and he ended up jerking off with punishing strokes, because it was wrong. Sinful. _Wrong_. He took a few moments after the toilet flushed, wishing he could do the same. Pull a cosmic lever and flush this all out of him; cleanse himself somehow of all of this. He leaned against the cool wall, closed his eyes, ignored the mix of urine and air freshener that lingered close and hot and dirty in the stall and tried to will it all away. _Please_, he'd prayed. _Please, You have to help me_.

He'd tidied up fast after that, checked to make sure he looked presentable, and walked back out into the lobby, thoughts turning back to the case.

"Hey, um, sorry, what was your name?" Agent Spears asked, putting a big hand out as he moved to pass by. Benjamin shied away from it and then hoped Agent Spears hadn't noticed, and said,

"Benjamin Ryazanov."

"Great, Mr. Ryazanov," Agent Spears said, smiling. "Look, I've lost my partner. He does this thing where he finds a lead and then disappears on me- anyway. Look, if you see him, will you let me know? Or, let him know I'm looking for him? I'd really appreciate it."

He'd been angry. Agent Spears had, not Benjamin. He'd been annoyed and unhappy that his partner was somewhere he couldn't follow, like Georgia when Dixie, their puppy, had run across the neighborhood. She'd come back, and Benjamin was sure Agent Cash would come back, but Georgia had been anguished while the dog was gone.

He 'd headed back to Jack's office, knocks lightly. He didn't hear anyone talking, but maybe, he'd thought, Jack would know where Agent Cash was.

He'd opened the door.

Jack had been on his knees, and from his vantage point Benjamin could see that Agent Cash's hands were in Jack's impeccably groomed hair, pushing him down and he was groaning, noises that went straight through Benjamin. Jack's head had bobbed and Agent Cash's hips had rotated and it was like porn- the kind Benjamin had never allowed himself to watch all the way through- just the 10 second clips.

He'd shut the door, face burning, and Agent Spears had been there.

"He's busy?" he'd squeaked, voice cracking like he was twelve.

"You've gotta be kidding me, Dean," Agent Spears had muttered, and stalked off.

* * *

When Benjamin had been six his best friend in the whole world had been Johnny Trevors. Johnny Trevors' dad worked at the Air Force Base and flew planes, which Benjamin had thought was the coolest thing in the history of _ever_.

He and Johnny had been inseparable all summer, going down to the creek and looking for frogs, getting wet and muddy and then trying to wash their clothes off in the creek so their moms wouldn't yell.

It never actually worked- their moms always yelled, they just also laughed a little.

Johnny moved around a lot. Sometimes he would tell Benjamin about the places he'd seen. Benjamin liked the stories about being up in Johnny's dad's plane best.

"The clouds are everywhere, and it's like heaven," Johnny would say earnestly, and Benjamin would wonder if Johnny was an angel.

Johnny moved way before second grade started. They'd come back, soaked as usual, and Johnny's parents' station wagon had been all packed up and Johnny had started crying.

"I didn't want to say," he'd whispered, holding onto Benjamin's hand. "I didn't want you to be sad."

Benjamin had grabbed him and they'd hugged and cried, Johnny harder than Benjamin because he knew what this meant. He knew what it really meant- that this wasn't just goodbye like you say to your grandparents and then see them later, that this was goodbye forever and ever and ever. Benjamin wouldn't figure that out until his birthday rolled around, and Johnny didn't even send a card.

"John!" Johnny's dad had barked. "Let's move, we've got to get to Arizona by Friday, and your mother's already in the car."

"Don't go," Benjamin pleaded. "You can stay here. With us."

"I hafta," Johnny had replied and then kissed him.

It was a child's kiss, puckered lips and salty with tears, and it was goodbye.

Later Benjamin's mom had sat him down.

"What Johnny did was wrong," she'd said, kneading dough. "You're lucky your father didn't see that. Boys don't kiss boys, Benny. Only grown-up men and women kiss."

"Why?" he'd asked.

"Because that's how God wants it," she'd said easily, sprinkling flour over the dough, smudges of it under her eye and on her chin and dustings of it in her hair. "God made men and women to love and take care of each other and make babies. And the Devil sometimes makes men and women want to kiss other men and women, but it's not real, baby. It's just the Devil working. But good people? They can pray to God to help them, and He will. Don't you worry."

She'd repeated that story, variations on it, for the rest of her life. Benjamin had wondered if she thought he was in danger, or if maybe it was just her favorite issue as the 80s and Gay Pride and Jerry Fallwell started gathering steam.

Benjamin went to church every Sunday and begged God's help.

Wondered why he was being tested.

* * *

The whole thing had gone very strange when Ms. Jackson had come in for another meeting around 7:30. She'd blushed at Jack (which was normal), smiled at Benjamin (which was surprising, because usually she ignored him), and then raised her eyebrows at the two agents.

"Of course," she'd said when Agent Spears had explained that they were just making sure everything was okay, that her mother might have inadvertently gotten caught up in some sort of scam and they just wanted to clear the air. "I'd be happy to answer questions."

"Christo," Agent Cash had said, throwing Agent Spears an impatient look and then clearing his throat.

"Dean!" Agent Spears had groaned.

She'd whirled on him. Benjamin had stilled, and Agent Cash moved between him and Ms. Jackson.

Her eyes had been black, and her smirk had been entirely unlike her.

"Sonovabich," Agent Cash had snarled, pulling out his gun.

"Dean, no! We don't know if she's still alive!" Agent Spears had shouted. The lights had gone out, Jack had screamed.

"She fell out of a 5th story window, Sam!" Agent Cash had snapped back. "It's Meg all over again. Where the fuck'd she go?"

They're gone in bobbing flashlights, and by the time Benjamin had crawled over to Jack he'd found him absolutely unconscious, checked his pulse and tried to wake him up.

There were gunshots and a scream and then something like…like smoke, he supposed, but it was flickering like electricity, like a living thundercloud, and he recoiled, tried to shield Jack and bit down desperately on a terrified whimper.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch," Agent Cash snarled, running back in, stilling, and then firing one sure shot. The bullet ripped through the cloud and it electrified further and then sort of dissolved, and Benjamin closed his eyes and prayed,   
_The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name' sake.  
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.  
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever._

He got through it twice, and then he dared open his eyes, still clutching Jack against him. The lights had all flickered back on.

"Kids- " Ms. Jackson was gasping, blood pouring from her mouth and bubbling as she gasped; choked on it. "- Basement- sacri- crifice- "

"Hey, shh, don't you worry about it. We're gonna take care of it, and you're gonna be okay. Just fine," Agent Cash assured her, holding her much the way Benjamin was holding Jack, except he was sort of stroking her neck in a soothing way. He was lying through his teeth, and Benjamin knew that he knew it, but he never let it show on his face. It made Benjamin's heart ache.

Ms. Jackson smiled at him, and then she stilled.

Agent Cash sighed, gently laid her on the floor, and then stood, looking out the doorway to where Agent Spears was standing.

"We gotta roll before the cops show up. Apparently the demon had kids in the basement. Sacrifices. I _hate it_ when it's kids."

"We'll get them."

"We gotta see if Bobby can make more bullets for the Colt," Agent Cash groaned, and then their voices faded away.

If you'd asked him, Benjamin couldn't have said when he fell in love with Dean (not Agent Cash- Agent Cash didn't exist, it turned out). He didn't know himself, except he found himself lying a little, during statements. Little things, like he hadn't seen them; Jack had worked the case. Jack, who had honest-to-God amnesia, which the doctors all said was trauma-based. Jack moved to Florida by November, and Benjamin never heard from him again.

Sure, Benjamin would agree with the police, he thought there were two of them. No, he didn't think they'd killed Ms. Jackson, but he could't be sure because the power had been cut, but why would they have cut the power? There must have been someone else.

The cops agree, that while it's all suspicious nothing is going to come from it, and the only one who suffers in the end is Mr. Brownwell, who commits suicide at losing his wife and daughter.

Benjamin and Susan go to the funeral, Susan's hand tight in his as he searches for a face he knows he won't see.

* * *

It's been two years. Georgia is five now, with her hair cut into a bob that she saw on TV somewhere and begged them for desperately. When Susan had balked at cutting her beautiful long hair, Georgia had taken matters into her own hands.

Then they'd had to really chop it all off, because she'd butchered her head. Susan had laughed and laughed even while trying to yell at Georgia, who hadn't quite managed to look repentant.

"But, Mommy," she'd said. "Now I'm like Snow White."

Benjamin had bought her a tiara at the local party shop, something ridiculous with rhinestones and painted a gold-ish color, but Georgia had loved it and so it was worth the $15 he shelled out for it. She wore it to school and around the house and even wanted to wear it to bed (they settled for it right on her beside table.

Margaret is three now, and loves The Little Mermaid. She's been running around the house singing "Kiss the Girl," which makes Benjamin uncomfortable, but he doesn't know how to explain the sin of homosexuality to a 2 year old. Her hair is darker, like his, but it curls and is long and her eyes are wide and lashes long and someday she will break hearts, and the thought makes him a little sick.

He can't get Dean out of his head.

It's been two years. _Two years_.

Susan keeps looking at him sadly, like he's breaking her heart and she doesn't know how to help him.

And he's trying. He's trying _desperately_ to be a good man. But he can't help it, finds some things about demons, those clouds, and then he thinks- wonders- if Dean is a warrior for God. Once he's had the thought that's it; and Benjamin wakes up nights in cold sweats, his boxers clammy and wet and he has to go wash up so Susan doesn't ask.

And so here he is, halfway from here to home, pulled over outside the old abandoned barn, hunched over his Prius' steering wheel, trying to bring himself to start the engine, drive back home to Susan and the girls.

"Please?" he begs. "Please, I need Your help. I need You to show me the way. I need You to- I need a purpose. I'm so lost, and I need You to use me for- please? Please? Just give me a sign? Please?"

His tears hit the steering wheel and the radio springs to life, shrieks static at him and then eases.

"We have work for you, Benjamin Ryazanov." The voice is beautiful and terrible.

"Please?" he begs. Because it's not fair; he's selfish and he's weak and his girls and Susan deserve so much better, but suicide is a sin and he thinks-

"Be at peace, Benjamin Ryazanov."

He is filled with light, and for the first time in his life since he was six he is utterly, completely happy.

* * *

_Oh, Can you hear that sweet, sweet sound?  
Yeah, I was lost but now I'm found  
Sometimes there's nothing left to save  
That's how you sing Amazing Grace_


	2. Gone the Sun

_I meant to ask you how when everything seemed lost  
And your fate was in a game of dice they tossed  
There was still that line that you would never cross  
At any cost_

* * *

She opens the door. "Yes…officers?" she asks, heart dropping in her chest. "What's wrong? Where's Benjamin?"

"Mrs. Ryazanov- Susan…there was an accident. Your husband…" they exchanged looks, and she'd seen enough crime TV to know no good would come of this. "Can we come in?"

It's on the tip of her tongue to say no. To slam the door in their faces and keep this horror at bay, but she does open the door, lets them sit on her futon while her two little girls sleep.

"You know the old abandoned barn?"

"Out on Booker Street."

"That's the one. We got a call about some gunshots being fired in the area. When we went to check it out…we found some shell casings, and… disturbing markings all over the interior of the building."

"Disturbing."

"We think they were occult. Satanic, maybe."

She touches her cross.

"Your husband's car was found outside the barn. There was another sets of tire marks…Oh, Susan, I'm so sorry, but there was a knife with Benjamin's blood on it."

She stares at them. It's Geof Henley and Vince Trebbunini, both good guys. She knows their wives, their kids play with hers.

"Benjamin is not involved in _anything_\- " she begins, choking back the tears, the indignant fury, the reality of this- of what they are dancing around.

"No! No, of course not. No, Susan, no. We think that they might have tailed him, attacked him, fled the scene. We're going to keep looking."

Geof reaches out to squeeze her hand and Susan jerks her hand back, flexing her fingers, her wedding ring and engagement ring catching the light from the lamp on the coffee table. Benjamin had hated that lamp, but his mother had bought it for them and so he kept it, and hadn't let her chuck it.

She can get rid of it now, and suddenly she feels like she has to throw up.

"I'm sorry- " she begins. He shakes his head as they both stand.

"I'm so sorry, Susan," Vince whispers, and then they are gone.

Leaving her all alone, in this big house with two little girls sleeping upstairs, and she throws up.

* * *

She folds her arms across her chest. Beth and Grace are in the other room with the girls. If she sees one more white card with a cross on it she's going to scream. If she sees one more casserole she's going to kill someone.

That's a bad joke. She shouldn't- it's a bad joke.

She plays with the cross on her necklace. Benjamin gave it to her last Christmas.

"Oh, Susan," Mom sighs, folding her into her arms. "How are you holding up?"

"It was a good idea to have the wake there," she says into her mother's neck, and then pulls back, because she has to be strong, and Mom feels too safe and if she loses it now she will never recover.

The local funeral parlor belonged to an old family friend, and he and her mother took care of almost everything. It was nice. It meant Susan just had to stop herself from falling apart in front of her girls and not scream at his side of the bed, at his shoes, at his papers and his books and his clothes and his toothbrush and his breakfast cereal and-

* * *

"Please," she whispers, wrapped in one of his trench-coats on the bed, staring at their wedding picture, holding it so tightly she's afraid the glass might break. "I need help. I know people lose their spouses every day, and that I'm not special, or unique, but this is my first time around, God. And I need you. I need to be strong for my girls, and I'm afraid I'm going to fall to pieces. I don't even want revenge on the people who did this to my family. Please, God. Please? Please help me- give me the strength to get through the wake, and the funeral, and all of this. Please accept him with open arms. He was a good man, God. The best, the best father, and the best husband, and if you could just let him know that? If you could let him know that he was…that I really loved him? That I do love him? If you could just find some way to let him know that. I'd really- I'd really appreciate it.

"And if you could help Gigi and Maggie. They're so young. And Gigi's so angry these days, and I need help. Give me the patience to deal with her, to see that she's hurting the way I'm hurting, even when she's infuriating me. Please. Please take care of my husband."

She sobs, stretches out on the bed, buries her face in his pillow and inhales, imagines she can smell him still. Her throat aches and she screams into it, tears making it damp and her heaving breaths making it warm; suffocating. She's suffocating without him.

* * *

"Susan? Sweetheart, we're here."

Susan climbs out of Mom's SUV, takes Gigi's hand in one of hers and Maggie's in the other, and walks into the funeral home. Everyone is watching her, and her spine stiffens under their scrutiny. She feels defensive, like she has to prove something to these people, and that always makes her angry, which…anger is something to ride through on.

She sits down by the closed casket (they've never found his body, but there was enough blood evidence, and there had been a few deaths in the area that seemed similar and- it'd been five weeks, and she needs to get on with things or else she was going to go insane).

The girls wander off after the first hour, and she lets them, lets them go talk to their friends, try to find some comfort.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," a man says. She looks up at him, takes his square, callused hand, and wants to cry. He seems so genuine, and almost guilty, but not guilty in the "I killed your husband" way; guilty like he would have given anything to stop it. Like maybe he thought somehow he could, and she empathizes with that.

After all the church friends and town friends and real friends and PTA frienemies and Pastor Laura she can't handle much more forced sympathy, but the strength in his eyes is undoing every barrier she's thrown up to get through this day.

"Thank you," she manages, inhaling a shuddering breath, tears pricking under her eyes and sharpness behind her nose, and her throat is dry and he's gone. Benjamin is gone. He's not coming back, and she'd yelled at him, about being distant and about working too much and about not knowing his girls and she was never going to be able tell him how much she loved him.

It's a few minutes before she realizes she's sobbing on a complete stranger's shoulder. He pats her back, soothing circular motions as she quivers.

"I- I'm so sorry," she manages. "I don't- I'm so sorry." He hands her the box of tissues quietly, and she laughs wetly and wipes at her streaming eyes and nose. The tissue has black from her mascara on it. She shouldn't have bothered with make up. Even water-proof mascara apparently is no match for this grief. "It's just been a- a really awful two months, you know?"

"I understand. Beat up a car," he advises, his smile somehow grave and warm at the same time. "It helps."

"A car. I think we have golf clubs in the garage," she says. He smiles, taking a tissue and wiping under her eyes.

"There you go," he says.

"Will- " she bites it back, shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

"No, what?"

"Will you come to the funeral tomorrow? I- how did you know Benjamin?"

Jerry has just walked in, looking wrecked. He and Benjamin had been college roommates, he'd introduced them, and he and Benjamin had stayed in touch.

She doesn't want to have to shoulder the burden of his grief on top of her own.

"Work."

"Oh, of course. You will, won't you?"

"I'll be there," he promises, and she feels like she's wrung something from him.

"Sorry," she says, as he starts to walk away, hands sliding into his leather jacket. He sticks out like a sore thumb; too attractive, jeans and leather instead of black muted business casual, but his gravity seems harder-earned than anyone here to grieve or lend their sympathies. People seem to move out of his way. "What was your name?"

"Dean," he replies. "Dean Carter."

He smiles faintly, and then walks out.

"Who was that, dear?" Mom asks.

"A friend of Benjamin's," she replies, leaning against her. "I want to sleep for years."

"Two more hours," Mom whisper, stroking her hair. "Then you can go home and go to bed and your sister and I will take care of Georgia and Margaret. Don't you worry. We'll throw out all of those casseroles. Anne's already gone to CostCo to stock up on those appetizers."

Mozzarella sticks and pigs in a blanket and mini-quiches. Benjamin didn't like that food- his mom had always made everything from scratch and he'd eat it if she brought it home, but she didn't like making food he didn't…

Well. It doesn't matter now. She can go to McDonald's every day from now on. She doesn't have Benjamin to tease her quietly about getting fat or grease or french fries that don't mold.

It doesn't matter.

If she smells flowers this strongly ever again she's going to get a blow torch.

"Don't worry, baby," Mom soothes, like she can read minds or maybe Susan's thinking out loud. "Mr. Faretti already said he'd throw all the flowers away."

Susan laughs, and it's a terrible jagged sound, and she's glad the girls are in the other room, because right now she's scaring herself.

* * *

They lower the empty casket into the ground after the service, and Gigi and Maggie are sobbing uncontrollably and she doesn't know what to do, it's all slipping away.

Gigi screams, "Nobody call me Georgia! Only _Daddy_ can call me that!" and then runs off, through the graves.

Dean catches her, crouches down and touches her cheek, listens to her.

"No," Susan says to Anne. "It's okay. He's a friend."

"What's his name?" Anne demands, every inch her protective big sister, and Susan leans against her. Anne presses a kiss to her forehead, smoothes her head like they're eight and burying Dad.

"Dean Carter."

"He's cute."

"Anne."

"I'm just saying, Susie Q."

He comes over, Gigi plastered to his side and looking up at him like he's hung the moon. He smiles down at her faintly, nods, and she goes over and takes Maggie's hand firmly in hers, and wipes at her sister's cheeks gently with her other hand.

"Lost my mom when I was younger than her," he explains. "I know what it's like. Hi, we haven't met."

"I'm Anne Scott-Daly, Susan's older sister," Anne says, shaking his hand firmly, if not suspiciously.

"Nice to meet you." He looks at Susan, and Susan almost wants to scream, because she doesn't understand why she reacts to him so strongly.

"It gets better, right?" she asks abruptly, mortified at herself but completely unable to stop. "This ache- it's going to go away, right?"

"Yeah," he replies, sliding his hands into his pockets. "It's going to go fade."

"I don't suppose you're going to- I mean, Gigi took a shine to you, and - I'd like to hear more about how you knew- " she breaks off, because she's crying _again_.

"I can't," he says, seeming genuinely regretful. "I would, but- I gotta be back to work, and my brother… I'd like to drop by, some time."

"Whenever you're in town," she says. "Here's my number."

He takes it, smiles at her faintly, and waves to Gigi.

"Susie, you know nothing about him!" Anne protests.

"Anne? Shut up," she snaps.

* * *

"Do you remember when we were kids?" she asks. "Teenagers, I mean."

Anne blinks at her, and then nods. They're curled up in the bed together, face-to-face, knees touching, Anne on Benjamin's side of the bed. It's been a month since the funeral, and Anne has slept there every night.

"Sure," Anne says. "Why?"

"You remember how we used to make fun of the boys who broke our hearts?"

"You want to make fun of Benjamin?"

"No! No. It's just… why do we do that? It never made us feel better."

"It did a little. For me at least," Anne admits, a slightly wicked smirk on her face. Anne was always a little braver than Susan. Susan always admired that; Anne was good at being strong.

"I always felt awful," she admits. She sighs, and says, "I don't know what I'm going to do for money."

"Benjamin's life insurance- "

"Oh, yeah, that'll get us through the next year or so…help out. But it's not a living."

"Susie, you have a whole study full of paintings. You could sell them. People would buy them out of pity at least."

"Oh, thanks."

"No, you know I think you're brilliant, but it might be a good start."

"That feels…wrong."

"You have to look out for you. And for your girls. It's okay to cut a few corners. I'm pretty sure God has bigger fish to fry."

She bites her fingernail, looking at Anne, who raises her eyebrows back. "Okay," she agrees.

Within five months she has galleries begging her to send them her work to sell, and she realizes she doesn't have to give up her entire life. Anne moves out again, goes back to her husband (whom she divorces a month later, and they do spend a week tearing him to shreds, because Susan thinks maybe that's Anne's grieving process). Life, surprisingly, does go on, and the ache does fade, just like Dean said.

* * *

Gigi comes home with a note from the teachers.

"They said Maggie wasn't a princess," Gigi snaps. "And she is, Mom. If she wants to be, she is. It's my job to protect her."

Susan sighs, and Anne squeezes her hand, and Susan explains again that violence is not the answer.

They got to church, and Laura works her gentle wonders and Susan relaxes after a while, doesn't feel broken.

* * *

Dean never visits, and she's not sure how she feels about that. She never tells anyone that some nights Benjamin would call out for a Dean. She's not even sure that that was the Dean, though looking at him, meeting him...she could see the appeal. She knew Benjamin struggled with...that.

She's not angry; she knows her husband loved her. Was true to her.

She hopes Benjamin is happy, in heaven. That he's forgiven himself. That he knows they loved him.

* * *

She remarries four years later. Jacob is the pastor who comes in after Laura leaves them, and he's funny and not as serious as Benjamin, and he doesn't try to replace him, just makes a new space in their lives, and she realizes that she missed out on a lot the first time around.

Maggie and Gigi love him.

* * *

Maggie and Gigi go off to college. Gigi becomes a raving lesbian ("Les, Mom. Not a Dyke") and Susan struggles but she accepts it. Besides, Nancy is a very lovely girl, and Gigi is happy, and Susan cannot imagine that there is a God who would hate her daughter. She wishes she'd come to that conclusion two decades ago, and that she could have told Benjamin, but when she prays she asks God to make sure he knows. Makes sure he knows she doesn't blame him or even think there was something wrong with him. That she's older now, and smarter, and she desperately wants to think he's at peace.

Maggie goes to seminary school, becomes a pastor. She marries, has six children, and Susan and Jacob live to see great-grandchildren. It's a good life.

* * *

_Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly  
To dust be returning from dust we begin  
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy  
Above and below me world without end_


	3. Last Chance of a Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't remember meeting Benjamin, but he's got his own set of problems.

_I'll count the first one in  
I don't know where it's going  
We all know where it's been_

* * *

In the aftermath of that first encounter, Dean didn't see the car parked outside. Bobby'd been swearing up a storm, and Dean had been shouting at him that he couldn't drive in his condition.

"You don't even know what my condition is, boy!" Bobby'd warned, and Dean had jingled the keys he'd lifted out of Bobby's pocket and said,

"Shotgun," and had almost finished with _shuts his cakehole_, but Bobby is not Sam, and Bobby might actually shoot him.

Without being possessed.

So they drive back, Dean freaking out quietly, and Bobby being Bobby in the passenger seat. The damn thing'd looked…like it was amused, or something. When it'd pulled Ruby's knife out of its chest. Hadn't looked away from Dean when he'd caught the tire iron Bobby swang, and Dean had been- there'd been voices. Sounds. He couldn't-

Move.

Stood rooted to the fucking spot while Bobby collapsed and the thing turned and called him by name. Hadn't moved to stop Dean from checking on Bobby- had waited, like…like he knew Dean was going to do it. Expected it.

Dean's not exactly comfortable with things that don't die even when stabbed with a knife that was supposed to be able to kill anything knowing him so well.

Likes to think he still has the element of surprise after 40- after four months- away. Four months.

He flexes his fingers around the steering wheel.

Thing is. He was rotting. He was- in _hell_ for a long damn time.

If the angels saw fit to pull him out- and he's not sayin' he believes that that's what Castiel is- why the hell'd they wait so long?

_"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."_ Dean's heard variations of that his whole life. Pastor Jim particularly loved that speech. Sam'd sit there in church, lappin' it up, and all Dean could hear was how bad he was, how he was supposed to get on his knees and beg someone to love him.

Dean'd started fixing cars instead, and Pastor Jim had eventually given up.

The thing'd said special people can perceive his true visage (which Dean's assuming means form, but this bastards got a weird way of talking- who the hell says "perdition"?). Dean's not one of the chosen few. The "special."

So they've got work for him, but he's not…special. And this shouldn't feel so much like middle school but it does, and it sucks. Because Dean's good enough to throw under the bus- he's got no illusions that that's where this is headed- but not _special_ enough to see the angel.

If that's what he is. Vessel his ass. All Dean's got are visions of Meg. Of that poor damn girl- and he's not okay.

He's not okay by a long shot.

"Dean- what?" Sam demands after they've both climbed out of the car. Dean slams past him. Hears Bobby explaining as best he can- knows it'll only buy him a little time.

He eyes Bobby's special occasion scotch but doesn't reach for it. Hell, like this a drink would send him into a tailspin, and he only just got back. Dean braces himself against the kitchen counter, mind stuck on one absolutely absurd thing:

Who the hell prays to be used as a vessel?

* * *

"His name was Benjamin."

Dean startles awake, rolls his eyes. "Dude. With the watching me sleep."

"His name was Benjamin Ryazanov. He was an associate attorney at a law firm. He was a good man. And he and I do not share a body."

Dean shoves his aching bones against the bed, shoving himself up into a sitting position. His muscles scream at the indignity. Witnesses, another fucking shapeshifter (this one with delusions of…Dean doesn't even know what), all of it within two months. Dean's _exhausted_.

40 years out of commission takes a toll. His body remembers this life, his brain doesn't take to it so easily. He feels like he's shattering between two worlds, and never realized how few footholds he had in his life until now- when he need one.

Four months. He just- it was four months.

Four months. Third of a year. Fraction of time. He's fine.

"What?" he asks thickly.

Castiel tilts his head. "You thought that I had possessed him like a demon. I did not explain it to you fully. That was my error in judgement, I should have considered your prior experience."

"You're in a corpse?" He's touched him- he's warm.

"It is a living body. I draw breath. This heart beats."

"You don't bleed."

"I heal quickly."

"Yeah, okay, Wolverine." That gets a blank look, and Dean sighs, scrubs his face, wonders what the fuck he ate that made his mouth feel so fuzzy and reaches into the nightstand for a piece of gum. He doesn't have the will power to haul his ass up just to brush his teeth.

"So, this…this Ben."

"Benjamin. Nobody called him Ben."

"Sounds like a load of fun. He have family?"

"A wife, two daughters."

Dean stills. "And he- just left them?" Left his family? _Dick_.

"He was a good man, who was tempted…and very conflicted. His religion told him he was not good enough."

Dean starts to say something and then sucks it back in. He frowns, licks his lips, and then starts again. "You're knocking religion?"

"Having faith and believing the doctrines of a religion are two very different things at times. Benjamin Ryazanov was a man who was told to hate a part of himself. That can never be part of God's plan; hate is not in God's plan. It is not part of His design."

"What… did he steal from someone accidentally? Forget to pay for a can of soup, or whatever?"

"He loved."

Dean rubs his face again, spits out the gum and sticks it to the underside of the nightstand because he never grew out of that phase from elementary school.

"Someone who wasn't his wife," he clarifies, thinking, _okay, so he was a cheating dick._

"He endured great suffering not only for his emotional infidelity but for the nature of it."

"Dude. It's 4:30 in the morning, and I spent the better part of yesterday getting my ass kicked by a poltergeist and I'm feeling a little night news 'It's 4:30, do you know where your brother is?' so if we could cut the riddles and get to the- "

"He loved a man, Dean."

Dean looks at him, frowns until he figures out what's bothering him the most. "You seem…okay with that."

"Love is love. It is the purest of God's gifts."

Dean bursts out laughing, because it's been a bad day, and he doesn't know where Sam is (but he suspects, and that's worse), and now he's got an angel telling him homosexuality is not a sin when every preacher he's ever met has said the opposite.

And when Dean says "said" he means "screamed."

Castiel just leans on the arm he has braced by Dean's leg, tilts his head and draws his brows together carefully, as though he's more worried about Dean's sanity than anything else.

"Dude. You guys have a serious communication problem with the people who speak on your behalf," Dean finally snorts.

"We have been absent for a long time," Castiel agrees. He looks at the wall- looks through it, beyond to where Dean's eyes cannot follow. Where Dean doesn't think any human can. "Perhaps too long."

* * *

Dean feels like when he sleeps, he should be sleeping. Not time traveling or doing his very own remake of the Terminator. For one thing, it's really hard to focus on driving when you're so tired you're seeing two of everything and you have Sam bitching.

Which he's doing.

Loudly.

"I'll go see if Bobby has anything," Sam sighs as they pull into the motel. "You should…definitely sleep. Because you are _not_ getting behind the wheel until you have."

Dean's not listening, he's faceplanted on the bed and is already half asleep. "Mphrfrmph," he agrees, flopping his arm at Sam.

Sam snorts, and then the door shuts behind him. He takes the Impala, so Dean's not really sure where he's going to be driving anyway. Clearly he's stranded in this fucking town. In…South Dakota, maybe? That's the last thing he thinks for 14 hours, because he sinks into blissful, solid, shake-the-walls-snoring sleep.

"The wake is today."

"Seriously, you avoiding Sam?" Dean doesn't even roll over, he's too comfortable. Languid, lazy with the rest.

"Samuel is not my charge. You are."

Dean frowns, stiffens, comfort switching over to energy just like someone flipped a switch in his brain. "Your charge."

"Responsibility."

"No. No- I'm not- no." Dean sits up, shakes his head and points at him as he strides across the room to go take a piss. He doesn't want anyone, much less an angel (and Jesus it's embarrassing that he's buying this line now) being responsible for his actions.

He zips up, flushes, and washes his hands. Glances in the mirror- he looks better. Healthier. Could use a shave.

"Let's go," he decides.

"I cannot," Castiel says, and of course, right, but responsibility is a two-way street and if Castiel hadn't had to pull Dean out of hell and then…talk to him about all this, he wouldn't've needed a host. So Benjamin whathisname's death is partially Dean's fault, and the least he can do is pay his respects.

Hell, not like it's even the first wake he'll have crashed. But crashing a guy's wake with the guy's body with someone else inside? Dean's pretty sure there are rules against that.

* * *

He's not prepared for this. For…he's in scruffy jeans, and he doesn't have the defense of a borrowed identity. He's just Dean, crashing the wake of some guy he never met before.

He feels like a complete dick (and oh, hey, maybe Sam's right, and Dean is an asshole. Of course, evidence suggests- but Dean is not going there).

He didn't shave, which was a tactical error, apparently.

The widow is sitting in a corner, across from the casket, angled so she doesn't have to look at it. She's young- maybe 34-36, and she's got that wrecked pale look that Dean recognizes from the mirror for the past four years. And then beyond- well. He's seen a lot of widows and widowers. He knows the look.

She's staring into space, and all he can think right then is that she's drowning in her grief and nobody is throwing the poor woman a line and so he walks right up and says quietly, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She starts to sob, to his horror, but he can't- usually this is Sam's job, but Sam's not here and she's falling apart and he can't-

He can't help holding her tight, rubbing her back the way he'd rubbed Sammy's after nightmares when they were kids- the way Castiel rubs his right before he jerks awake (and wow, where did that come from? Not the time, but what the fuck?).

She pulls back, embarrassed, and he hands her the tissues and tries to help her bring those walls back up. Because he knows, really knows, the only way to get through this is to put those walls back up.

He's got no idea why she wants him at the funeral. And he's got no planned reply for how he knows her husband, but he's thinking, "Oh, the angel who's using his body stalks me and raised me from hell" isn't actually going to cut it.

So he goes with work, and knows she's distracted and distraught enough that the slight hesitation of the lie will just fly right past her.

And he agrees to go to the funeral, though he's got no idea why. He just can't say no to her.

He doesn't remember what name he gave her.

* * *

"She _loved him_," he snarls, banging the door open.

"She did. And he her. But he also loved another."

"You had no- "

"You don't understand. He asked for this. He was desperate, and this was for the best. She lost her husband to God's care."

"She doesn't seem to feel that way."

"She's devout. She'll make peace."

"And the kids?"

"Are young."

"I never got over- "

"You were never allowed that luxury."

Dean staggers- it's like a punch to the gut, but Castiel just tilts his head.

"You were never allowed to forget your mother, to allow that wound to heal. And you have not allowed yourself to let your father fade into the background."

"You sonovabitch. What do you know- "

"I know _you_."

"You don't know the first thing- "

"I _know_ you."

Dean sneers, and if Castiel was Sam, he'd hit him. Hit him fucking hard, but he's not, and Dean has burns on his biceps and the knowledge that even though the body is human, the thing inside isn't, and it won't die. Won't go down. He's burning with pent-up frustration.

"Don't you have to blink away now? Go follow some summons?"

"I am where I need to be." He's so fucking calm, standing right in Dean's space like personal boundaries are something he's only heard about but never managed to internalize (like Sam and common sense).

Dean is pissed off and aching and wanting-

Wanting to accept this fucking reassurance, except he knows better. He _knows_ better.

Castiel touches Dean's cheek with the pads of his fingers, tilting his head. They're about the same height, but Castiel always looks up from under his eyebrows and Dean always shies away and Dean's never sure-

Never sure where the fuck he stands, and he's tired. He's just so fucking tired of the ground getting pulled out from underneath him. He's been doing this for almost 70- 30. _30_ years. No steady home, Dad's moodswings, the rollercoaster of Sammy growing up, Sam leaving, Dad taking off, Dad disappearing, Sam and Yellow Eyes and then the fucking Deal and then Hell, and that had been fucking awful but it had been _steady_, reliably awful, and now he was back, alive and apparently factoring into God's plans and Dean is just… exhausted.

"I know," Castiel says with a sad, serious smile. "And I do not envy you. I would make this easier for you if I knew how."

Dean pulls away slowly. "Don't read my mind. Freaks me out." He stretches out on the bed. Castiel sits beside him, and Dean's vaguely aware that his back is being touched- that he's being comforted.

* * *

Dean's not used to being touched. Dad's basic philosophy was "tough it out," and Sam and he touch to reassure each other that they're there- a smack, a kick, light and affectionate until it's not anymore. Or when Sam's drunk.

Sam is a _handsy_ drunk. And not like, feels-him-up. Just clingy, like he'd been when he was three and sick with a fever. That's always how Dean had known there was something wrong with Sam: he'd get clingy and quiet.

So not much has changed.

Dean first best friend outside of Sam was a boy named Jack Brentwood. Jack's family moved around a lot- his dad was Air Force- and he'd sat down across from Dean in the cafeteria and said,

"You're the new kid, huh? Good, man, I was getting sick of it."

They were ten, and Dean had snorted. Jack had grinned, and tossed him a pudding cup. "Got an extra. Play up the sympathy card, dude. People around here _lap it up_."

Jack was about as concerned with rules as Dean was, and because they couldn't slide into the cliques that had been formed back in kindergarten they made their own.

Jack always slung his arm around Dean's shoulders, or leaned against him or grabbed his wrist. Dean got used to it, didn't think anything of it.

"Are you going out?" Jenny Hardy asked one day when Dean was frowning over a math assignment. Fractions were a bitch. Jack was refusing to let him copy.

"Where?" he'd asked, distracted. Jack had laughed and kicked him under the table. "Ow! What? What?"

"Are you two going out? Like," she scoffed in that _boys are so dumb_ way that seemed to be universal for all girls in all the schools Dean's ever gone to, "you know. A _couple_?"

"Jenny Hardy!" Mrs. Forsythe shouted (they all called her Mrs. Four-Eyes behind her back). "Boys do not go out with other boys! Honestly, that mother of yours."

Jenny tossed her red hair and sniffed. "My mom says that all love is pure love. She says you're a Bible-thumper."

Mrs. Forsythe went scarlet, and Dean snickered into his paper. Jack's foot was still pressed against his. Jenny's mother was about to get another call. That was four this week alone.

Sam was in kindergarten, so Dean talked Dad into staying put. Or letting them stay put- some days Pastor Jim or Caleb or Bobby (though Bobby less and less frequently) would be in the kitchen instead of Dad, but they stayed put for 180 whole days, plus vacations and weekends (that's how long a school year was. Dean knew, because the first graders at this school had a huge party on the 100th day and there were songs about only 80 school days left- Dean was glad that he'd missed first grade here).

The very day school got out Dad had them packed and ready to move on. Sam didn't understand what it meant, but Dean did. Sam just thought they were going on vacation, like his friends. Dean knew they weren't coming back. That the goodbyes were forever goodbyes.

"What's up, dude?" Jack asked, his teeth a white flash against his dark skin, sitting on the lawn-chair on his porch.

"We're bugging out," Dean said around the lump in his chest. He didn't have to explain- Jack would get it. Jack always got it.

Jack stilled, and Jack'd moved around enough to know what this meant.

This was goodbye forever.

He'd grabbed Dean and they'd hugged tight, fierce hugs that weren't the boy-hugs, they were the kind of hugs that said, _I never had a friend like you before_, and maybe _I love you_.

Dean pressed a kiss to Jack's lips and said, "You were my best boyfriend ever."

Jack had laughed and said, "I was your _first_ boyfriend, ever. God, you're a bitch, Dean"

Dean grinned, forced it onto his lips that tasted like the grape soda Jack'd been drinking and then he turned and walked away. Later on, Dean would remember that and laugh. He'd been a kid. Just a little kid, and yeah, Dean was promiscuous but. Still, though, whenever Dean thinks about soft touches, careless comfort, he think of Jack, who he walked away from without looking back.

 

Castiel touches him like Jack.

* * *

He walks into the graveyard not knowing what the fuck he's doing.

So that's par for the course.

The older girl screams something and runs full-tilt towards him, but Dean's pretty sure she doesn't have any idea he's there, she's just running away. He gets that- he wants to run away.

"Hey, hey," he says, touching her cheek, and she stills. "What's up?"

"They're all _stupid_," she announces. She's probably six, with a pair of the fiercest eyes he's seen lately. Definitely Casti- no. Definitely Benjamin's kid. Wow, that's a headtrip. He crouches down to look at her.

"Probably," he agrees. She kicks the stump.

"I want him _back_."

"I wanted my mom back," he tells her quietly, squinting at the cloudy sky. Kids are easy.

"Your mom died?"

"I was younger than you. Had a little brother I carried out of the house- "

"Why?" she demands, and that's what Dean loves about kids. They're so pissed one minute but they want a good story and they're willing to forget how pissed they are to get it.

"Our house burned down."

"Bad men killed my daddy," she tells him. "I've gotta sister."

"Yeah? Younger?"

"Yeah. She's only three."

"You gotta take care of her, you know. You gotta help your mom. It's your job, 'cause you're older."

She frowns. "Like Cinderella's fairy godmother?"

Dean's not really familiar with Disney movies, but this one isn't hard. "Yeah. Like that. I mean, she's scared, and all alone, and she sees you running away and who's she got?"

She takes his hand and tugs. "Come on. We've gotta go get her. Come _on!_"

She tugs him back to where the widow is, and someone who must be her sister is glaring at him suspiciously.

They make small talk, and it's weird, like she wants to offer him a place to stay or something, and he fumbles some excuse about having to get back to Sam and back to work, and because he's panicking and lying he slides in a token line about stopping by the next time he's in town.

She reads him as genuine, gives him her number, and he waves to the little girl and then walks away, along the lines of dead men.

He wonders how many of them gave up their lives for something they couldn't understand. He wonders if Benjamin had any idea the wreckage he'd leave behind.

* * *

Shit happens. Bad shit like four poltergeists and another of Dean's hellmates. Dean'd clipped him with the Colt (Sam seems determined that Dean be the one to carry the Colt- like somehow it's going to protect him, and Dean doesn't complain because it's smooth and comfortable in his hand). Felt a quick rush of pride- grim, vicious satisfaction.

Then the poltergeists get him.

Sam has a _shit_ poker face, and he snapped at Ruby to get out, so Dean knows he's in bad shape.

"Look at the bright side, Sammy," he gasps. "Didn't make a deal, might go to that happy picnic in the sky. Wonder what the pie's like in heaven."

"Dean, shut the fuck up," Sam snarls, up to his elbows in Dean's blood.

"Samuel, move," Castiel says, outta nowhere.

Dean lifts his eyelids (which is weird, normally he doesn't think about what a chore that is, but it really is a bitch today). Oh good, Uriel, too.

"Leave," Castiel says quietly. Sam makes an indignant noise, and Castiel frowns at him seriously. "Not you." He tilts his head and leans over Dean. "I do not understand your desire to allow the hordes of hell- or anything remotely evil- to peer inside your chest."

Dean stares at him, and then cracks up, punchy and woozy with blood-loss. "That was a joke."

"We are not devoid of humor."

Dean looks at where Uriel is- was- standing, pointedly. Oh, so that's who he told to leave. Good. Dick.

"_I_ am not devoid of humor," Castiel corrects. "Close your eyes."

Dean feels hands on his chest, and then he's warm and safe.

"- Don't know what game you're playing," Sam is saying when he wakes up again. He's on his stomach in a motel room (Dean would recognize the bed anywhere- all motels have the same bed). "He doesn't remember- he was …_preoccupied_\- but I remember that body. He was a good guy."

"He was. And he has been rewarded."

"I don't- "

"You seem to believe that we are unwilling to sacrifice, or ought to be. We do not take what is not freely given, but we are soldiers. Dean understands this- "

"That's because Dean is still completely fucked up from his _forty year stint in hell_!" Sam whisper-shouts.

Dean shifts a little and they both quiet- Castiel's hand is on his back, rubbing slow soothing circles.

"Time…is a difficult concept. For you it was four months. For Dean, forty years. For us, four hours. I moved as quickly as I was able.

"And you should stop pretending to sleep," he says, definitely to Dean, and Dean sighs and cracks an eye open.

"Didn't want to interrupt the heart-to-heart," he drawls. "Sammy- "

"You remember the thing, two years ago, with the demon who was keeping the 13 kids in the basement, feeding off their souls?" Sam demands, hunched over his bed, hand wound together.

Dean groans, lifts his shirt off and examines himself for injuries: none. "Yeah, kinda."

"Remember the law firm?"

"Oh _yeah_," Dean grinned. Jack had been there- _Jack Brentwood_ who Dean'd said goodbye to 17 years ago and never thought he'd see again. Jack with his thick Texas drawl and lazy smile, all broad shoulders like something out of a goddamn fantasy.

Sucked _fantastic_ cock.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Remember the other lawyer?"

"…No." Dean reaches back, trying, and sort of remembers there was another guy. Maybe?

"He was in the _room_\- Jesus. The demon tried to go after him. He was curled around your- he was trying to protect him. You figured out where the demon was going after we got it- "

"Out of the body yeah. I guess. Mousy guy, nothing- "

"It's him, Dean."

"It's _who_?"

"Me."

Dean turns to look at Castiel. That was a long time ago, the guy'd sort of been on the side of everything, not an ally, not Jack, Dean hadn't really noticed him.

"You."

"I told you he loved a man."

Dean has a horrible feeling about this- like he knows where it's going and-

"He loved you, and would have wanted you protected. I needed a host who…had a connection with you, even if you did not reciprocate."

No. No. "_No_," Dean snarls. "I am not shouldering the blame for this. I am _not_\- "

"Dean," Sam sighs. "Nobody's blaming you. Jesus, sit down, you almost died."

"It is difficult for us to empathize in a human capacity. To have a vessel who had a set pattern of emotional responses to you…allows me to interact with you better. He asked for it."

"I am sick of people dying for me," Dean snaps, sitting back down because Sam's glaring and the line between Castiel's eyebrows has deepened.

"You should get used to it," Castiel replies, and suddenly he's in Dean's space again, that calm, dangerous voice that he'd used in Bobby's kitchen when they'd only just met. "More will. The hosts of heaven will die for you. Your army will die for you."

"Stop it- " Sam tries, tired, big hand scrubbing his face. "Just- Dean. Think about it- I mean, it's weird, but Uriel has no empathy. If Castiel is in a body that remembers human emotions- maybe it's like muscle memory."

Castiel is just looking at him, steady and serious, and Dean stares back.

"I can't," he pleads. _Look at me_ he thinks. _I made demons. I tortured them and I fucked and I begged and I laughed and I didn't care. For a decade, I did horrible things- I can't be your leader, I can't be anyone's Messiah_.

And then he pauses, because Castiel smiles and touches his cheek again. "You are, though."

* * *

Dean does, in the end. Lead, that is. He's not sure how it happens- he sort of thinks Sam and Castiel joined forces against him, and all of a sudden he's in the middle of the fight. Thick in the middle.

They hold up in a hotel suite (Sam &amp; Ruby in the adjoining, because dude, Dean doesn't want to think it, much less hear it). Castiel sits across from him, and the angels whisper in the back of Dean's mind.

And people do die for him. He plots the courses, Sam does the research, and they're such an odd team, with their angel and demon (and it's funny, but they all know Castiel could kick Ruby's ass if he wanted, and it actually makes her more bearable.). They wade into the middle of the fight over and over again, Colt in Dean's hand, sawed-off in Sam's. It freaks him out that Castiel just reaches for them and lays his hands full-on their forehead. Like his Grace burns them out.

"It has been a year," Castiel observes, suddenly in the room.

"Since you gripped me tight and raised me from perdition, yeah," Dean drawls, grinning a little as he leafs through a book. He loves making fun of Castiel's archaic speech patterns. Loves to see how far he can needle.

Dean looks up when the quality of silence changes, and finds himself kissed.

"What the fuck?" he demands, pulling back. "We are not this close to winning this goddamn war to have you _Fall_!"

Castiel smiles- he does that more, lately, even if they're still small, strangely contained things. "I am not in danger of falling, Dean."

Dean snorts eloquently, feeling like maybe he's got the wrong end of all of this because he doesn't know what the fuck is going on, but chances are if Castiel has that look, Dean's being an idiot.

Oh fuck, it's like they're married. Dean hasn't gotten laid since…Anna. He's sick of his right hand, his left hand, his hands- he's just sick of jerking off. But he is _not_ going to- no. Just no.

He taps Dean's heart lightly. "You share my Grace. How do you think I raised you? You are the life which I created, and we are neither Fallen."

Dean closes his eyes and remembers, finally. The slick, too-rich, oppressing overwhelming damp hot mess of hell spider-webbed under his skin and through the marrow of his bones. It scraped his bones and pricked his flesh but it was constant and warm and Dean had learned how to shoulder it better than half the demons he'd met in hell. He'd thought, at some point, just before- he'd thought he could have surpassed even Alastair.

Lilith.

And then suddenly everything had shifted like he was in a crater and the screams had reached agonizing levels and gone from malicious to _hungry/fearful/lustful/greedy/terrified_. He'd whirled, sluggish in the sudden cold, blinded by the clear, clean light. It had flung itself towards him with reckless abandon and he'd screamed. Arched and fought and burned against it, bucked and bit and tore but it held, wrestled him to the ground and stole the air from his lungs and smothered his screams and then he'd woken up three feet under.

"You are so stubborn," Castiel observes, and Dean wouldn't call it _fond_… "You do not believe you should have been saved, and have fought to redeem yourself, putting yourself in league with Ruby. A demon seeking forgiveness.

"Dean. You have _always_ been forgiven."

Lips cover his, and he doesn't resist this time.

Feels whole for the first time in a year. Thinks maybe they really will win.

Thinks he might deserve to win.

* * *

  
_The last man standing  
Step right up, he's the real thing  
The last chance of a lifetime  
to Come and see, hear, feel ... the real thing_


End file.
